Stereotypical
by Sonofthebattle
Summary: He kinda figured he would always find himself living the typical American dream. It's funny how, after being nearly blown to pieces and ripped from all sense of normalcy that he can find home in a beaten lawn chair and a plastic kiddie pool.


_**A/N: Holy cow guys, has it been a while or what? But I'm alive and writing! I saw this movie this summer and absolutely fell in love with it, not to mention the characters themselves! This just started out as a drabble, and I'm not sure how it got to being a one-shot from a drabble, but hey, it happens **____** So tell me whatcha think! Constructive criticism is always wanted and appreciated!**_

_Summary: He kinda figured he would always find himself living the typical American dream. It's funny how, after being nearly blown to pieces and ripped from all sense of normalcy that he can find home in a beaten lawn chair and a plastic kiddie pool._

_Characters: Face, some Hannibal, mentioning of other characters_

_Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Family_

_Note: NO SLASH. Personally, if you want to put on your night vision goggles and see slash in this, that's your own thing. But this is not by any means or form slash. It's written as Family, Father/Son, brotherly kinda fluff._

_Also, I'm very limited in my military knowledge, so I took a few liberties here in trying to make it as realistic as possible. If I made any huge, glaring mistakes, please feel free to PM me and let me know! _

**Stereotypical**

Life's kinda like the lottery. In theory, the good guy should win the gold. The whole world should be right, your stars bright, the car full of gas and the mortgage paid. Right? Isn't that how life supposed to be? The whole American Dream scheme, white picket fences and two point five kids, a loving wife, nine to five job and limited worries? Yeah, well, that was always a theory.

He always thought that, when he reached about thirty or so, he'd have that life. Finally settled down, stop playing the frat-boy, the con-man, actually sit down and work an easy job, one where you don't worry about being shot at, knifed up, blown up or otherwise. Where you biggest fear is the overbearing pile of paperwork that never seems to end on that corner of your desk. He thought he'd find a good girl, maybe military, but one that had him roped. He found that. He was hooked and head over his heels and ready to be the one darn thing he never was,_ committed_, and then he never got the chance. Charisa jumped ship, went AU, took a leave, ran off, dumped him, left him, abandoned him, whatever way you wanted to put it, and it changed him a bit.

Cause it had hurt. A lot more than he had ever expected.

He doesn't really remember the aftermath, it's not something he really wants to mark down on his calendar and confess his failure to the world. His nickname is there for a reason, and he puts on a face for the world to see doesn't let them see behind the mask. It's safer that way, the way he learned to hide from the rest of the world when he was still an orphan, still being bounced around from foster home from foster home, convinced that no one in the world wanted him.

Funny, once upon a time he wanted nothing more than a solid roof over his head and a soft bed to sleep in at night. Out here, it's kill or be killed, the seldom rains are so appreciated that when they _do_ come he doesn't exactly mind being caught out in it, clothes, blankets, bed and all, and the leaky roof, (when he's lucky enough to have one,) is something that's rare. He treasures the tattered and scratchy blankets that he wouldn't have so much as tolerated ten years ago and the sand, dust and grim doesn't bother him like he would have thought it would.

These days, he's not sure how he would function without this way of life, a way of life that has become the only way he knows how to live. Once upon a time, as clique as it sounds, he would have cringed at the image of a soldier in a foreign country, without much to him name other than dog tags and loyalty. He wanted money, a high interest job, security, stability, women and anything but dirt and sand. A part of him still yearns for that life, the one he never got to live, but at the same time the life he never really knew how to live, because after all these years he keeps coming back to what he wants most in the world. And it's not cash, it's not the clean squeaky job with pressed suits and secretaries are much as he would like that right now.

It's not the stability and security he wants anymore, at least, not in the same way. It's not even, even though many won't believe him for a second, a woman in the bed, at his side or even on his mind. He had his choice of his wonder woman, he had Charisa, and that certainly worked out well. Just when she had him hog-tied, she cut the rope and left the calf heaving and struggling to breath and without a reason. It still burned in a part of his soul, branded in a way, and he felt flighty, skittish and unsure of what he wanted with a woman, which would turn into a laughingstock around camp if word ever got out how he _really_ feels, which is why he keeps on the face to the rest of the world, if nothing less than to save the image of who he is to other people. What on earth would people think if Face, _Faceman_, the one human being with the ability to charm the stars out of the sky, was unsure about what he wanted with women?

He can fool most of them, that's for sure. The other soldiers, they don't see much below the surface, don't see what really bugs him and kills him and bothers him too bad to put into words. Of course, it's not like he expects them to see anything, because they're not looking for something to be wrong with him, because by all accounts, he's fine. He says he's fine, acts fine, smiles fine and laughs fine so why wouldn't he be?

The ones he's not fooling is his team. He knows it and they know it, but most of all Hannibal knows it. All the colonel has to do is take one look into his eyes and he knows the colonel knows. It used to creep Face out how Hannibal just needed to look into any of their eyes to read their emotions but it's decidedly useful out here, in battle where words are scarcely used sometimes and blow away with the desert wind. It shouldn't surprise him really, Hannibal takes him job seriously, enough to know his men inside and out, knowing what makes them tick and their strengths and weaknesses and emotions, high and lows.

This is the longest he's ever really stuck with something, now that he thinks about it. Eight years is a long time to run with any one crew, and to think, he's known the colonel so much longer than that even, eight years is a long time for _anything_ continuous when you're Templeton Peck and you were orphaned at an early age and no one has ever given the scum off their boots if you were hungry or hurt or tired or just had your heart broken the one time you opened yourself to a woman you really loved. Eight years.

He still remembers the breakup with Charisa. Or at least, the after-aftermath. He doesn't remember the _immediate _aftermath of course because he would have had to have been in his right mind to do so and thankfully he wasn't. It was one of the strongest hangover's he'd had in a while, but that had been the least of his worries at the time, at least it had been a distraction from the raw, bleeding wound in his heart that had reminded him of its presence with each breath…

_He'd wandered back to his team eventually, dragged himself more accurately, because he hadn't been answering his phone, and he knew the colonel would be furious. Hannibal stressed, "Never be out of contact, always be reachable." And Face, who prided himself on know each and every one of the colonel's rules and quirks had definitely let that one loose. He wasn't even sure where the heck his phone was, let alone who had tried to contact him. He'd only be gone a few days, three at max, but it wouldn't matter to Hannibal. One missed call could mean something had gone horribly wrong, one voicemail could be the precursor to a kidnapping by Al-Qaeda or worse. He knew the colonel would be worrying his grey hair white and promised himself that he'd make it up to the one man he looked up to in the world in person. It just wouldn't do otherwise. _

_He remembers entering the tent, Murdock and BA off scrounging parts or mechanical equipment, which just left Hannibal in their small structure, his back turned to the Lieutenant as he entered, but Face has no doubt Hannibal knows he's there, because Hannibal always knows. He doesn't need someone to tell him, or even to see it, he just knows and if Face can admit it to himself that's exactly what he needs right now, someone to just know what's wrong and not to have to explain it with the full-out humiliation and all._

_His commander turns, and his manner and demeanor are so familiar and unchanging that it soothes the heart-broken Lt. if only for a moment before he can bring himself to look Hannibal in the eye. The colonel blazing blue eyes are a mystery, hardened with what seems like anger, but softened at the edges with what seems like concern and relief. When he speaks, it's in a gruff voice that even Face has a hard time finding the emotion in._

"_Where have you been Face?"_

_At that one question, Face suddenly finds that he can't talk, couldn't if he wanted to, and he swallows, hard, trying in vain to find his voice and look preoccupied as he does so, because he really, really doesn't want to have to explain to Hannibal what's the matter. He can't seem to get past the lump in his throat and his hands are shaky and his palms sweaty and he just wants to go back to the woman he realizes that he truly loves and beg her to tell her what he did wrong so he can change it, change everything, and just get her back._

"_Lieutenant?" Hannibal steps closer, setting down the papers he was looking over on the nearby table, taking in the sight of his young officers' appearance, drawn and wan, looking like death itself warmed over, eye dull and yet moist. He's never seen such a completely broken look from the other man and it almost infuriates him, because he knows, he knows, that only one thing can get to Face this way and he knows the way a father knows his son that the look Face is wearing is heartbroken and he ventures that Charisa Sosa is somehow behind this façade. _

_The sight of his cracked and bleak Lieutenant is enough to bring the fury out from behind Smith's eyes, but the thought of Sosa, cocky and confident, so much like Face himself, brings the rage out and he feels like hands clench into hard fists, imagining what happened in the past days to make Face this shell of a wasted man because he knows that the young man standing so venerable in front of him wouldn't get this bent out of shape over anything less than Charisa Sosa. _

_And hasn't his kid been through enough already? Orphaned young, conned his self into the Army with what Hannibal knows was a forged birth certificate. Face just looks older. Hannibal bets Face wasn't a day over sixteen when he joined the army, signed over his future and innocence with a swipe of ink and didn't look back._

_To this day, what Hannibal wouldn't give to have words with the recruiter that let this brash young man sign his own death sentence without so much as a single question. He remembers Face when he first found him, haughty and head-strong, rash and unpredictable, flying into every dangerous mission the general would allow him on, diving head-first into a combat zone without even the slightest hint of wanting to get out alive. That young man had been suicidal, fully aware that no one had ever given a rat hair for him, and convinced that no one ever would. _

_Hannibal found him before he finished what he set out to do, kill himself. He remembers watching a young man with vivid blue eyes and blond hair rushing headfirst into a live explosion zone, oblivious to the shots around him, bent on rescuing a fellow soldier who was already gone. And Hannibal, for reasons he'll never explain, ran right after him._

_An undistinguishable sound brings him back to the present, and he locked eyes with Face, watching his young officer's emotions swing underneath a sea of crystal blue. He's only seen Face this exposed a handful of times, less than he can count on one hand, and suddenly he needs to know, needs to hear it from him because that will make him snap._

"_I um…" Face chancing looking up noticing with a backseat horror that his vision is growing blurry. This is the last, the last, person that he has any desire to look weak in front of, but the emotions are flying too fast, everything is flying too fast and he's quickly losing his famous control over the situation. Hannibal's suddenly right in front of him, dark blue eyes searching his own. The concerned, compassionate look on his commander's face is almost unbearably gentle, and he knows in that moment that he's going to lose it._

_He tries for a smile, it cracks, but he holds it in place just for show and tries to talk, to explain again._

"_She, uh…" and in that singular moment, he cracks. The smile falls and his eyes water like they're going to overflow and his knees wobble just a bit and all he wants to do is just break down and cry because it hurts, it_ hurts, _but then he's forced to look up at the contact on his shoulder._

_Hannibal's standing there, and before he can ask why his commander's hand is resting on his shoulder, he feels the tears weal over of their own record and slides down his cheeks. They feel involuntary, detached, as though he can't even feel them._

_But Hannibal, the man can't do nothing. It's just not in his genotype. It doesn't matter what happening, the man doesn't sit by and watch something, or someone, fall to part, he has to act._

_Hannibal takes in Face's expression, those big blue eyes, the tears running down his face and forgot all boundaries of detachment and animosity. With a gentleness that most didn't know he possessed, he reached out and wrapped a strong arm around the back of his Lt. and placed the other at the base of his neck, pulling Face firmly to his chest. The younger man stiffened at the initial contact, but relaxed finally and proceeded to bury his head in his commander's shoulder, back shaking slightly but not making a sound. Hannibal could feel the young man trembling slightly, and gave him a light squeeze, running one head through Face's unruly hair. And it that moment, it doesn't matter that they're two men in the middle of a war zone, that the possibility of being blown up is a constant threat, that they're bloody and damaged and will always be marked by the scars of way and will always be military men, none of it matters. It doesn't matter than they're not related by blood, not none of them are technically related by blood, because they have the strongest _team_ bond he's ever seen. _

It's strange how, sitting here, there's not a place in the world imagine being other than right here. His shoulder's still throbbing and blood keeps seeping through, his fingers are stiff and sore from being bound together and his whole body aches with each movement. The IV in his arm stopping feeling like a stinging thorn, it's now more or less unnoticeable, and the water on his feet is soothing, cool and comfortable. There's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be, with Murdock cooking a few feet away, whistling some theme song that Face doesn't recognize, that old familiar ball cap hiding his wispy, unkempt hair.

He can hear BA a few feet away as well, tinkering around with his bike or something, occasional muttering drifting his way that forces a small grin at the corners of his mouth. The big guy acts all tough and angry on the outside, but Face knows that there are more productive things we could be doing at the moment then working on that perfectly running bike. He could be stocking ammo or checking weapon stock or even shooting the bull with the guys on the east side of camp. But after what happened this week, BA hasn't so much as let Face out of his site for more than thirty minutes at a time, and it's likely to continue until the younger Lieutenant is back on his feet and one hundred percent.

The smell of the burning meat is enough to make his mouth water and he's just about to ask Murdock when it'll be time to eat when a large baritone voice beats him to it, "Murdock, when's dinner gonna be ready?"

Hannibal just announces his presence in ways like that, loud and to the point. Even standing there in just a old t-shirt and well-worn pair of cargo pants and boots, he's the picture of authority and command, and yet relaxed and at ease at the same time. He commands respect from everything with that piercing look in his blue eyes, and at the same time, is the kind of guy that you feel you can tell anything to. He's definitely become more than just a commander to them all, he's the only one that took them all in, regardless of their faults and mistakes. He's taken all of them under his wing and brought them along to the point of where they are today. He scans the little group, takes in each of his men's activities before lighting on Face and the young officer ducks his head, starting to reassemble his mask that was shattered a few moments ago with Sosa's reappearance into his life.

Murdock's voice breaks through his thoughts momentarily. "Real soon Colonel," in that well practiced drawl of his.

He knows Hannibal sees, and he knows that Hannibal knows but they both feign ignorance for the sake of it all. Their commander takes out a cigar and lights it, a scene so normal and rehearsed that his three boys would be surprised not to see it. He puffs on it once or twice, then casually comments, "Heard Sosa dropped by."

Murdock answers him without skipping a beat and without even looking up from his work. "Yep. El Diablo dropped by for a chat. Told her nobody was available and to leave a message after the tone," their quirky pilot reports, tongue in cheek.

"It that right," Hannibal's smiling slightly now, Murdock's antics get to him that way. He focuses his gaze on Face though, blue eyes searching for something. "That right Lieutenant?"

Face looks up and meets his Colonel's blue eyes, compassion searching Face's own blue-green orbs. Hannibal won't be satisfied with a lie and he can't be conned. He learned that early on in his enlistment with the Colonel. So for the moment, he doesn't try for an overly exotic grin that he knows Hannibal will see right through or even a lie about how he really feels. He just gives the older man a quirky half smile, and replies, "Yeah. Nobody home, leave a message."

Hannibal's face breaks into a slightly bigger grin and he crosses the threshold to help Murdock with dinner, pausing to give his young officer a knowing grin and ruffle his hair a bit. "Glad to hear it Kid."

And as their little band of four gather around and Murdock plunks a full-paper plate in his lap and a can in his hand, listening to their bather and talk circulate, he's pretty sure that he has everything he ever needed right here.

_**A/N: Okay, so how was that? Did it suck? Too long? Way off character base? Let me know! Reviews feed the hungry author!**_

_**And a word to my '**__Open Window__** readers, that story will be updated in the no-so-distant future, sorry for the wait!**_


End file.
